


Hard Reset

by Ozymanreis



Series: Tumblr Drabbles [64]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Drugs, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Flash Forward, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic, Mind Palace, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Fix-It, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 16:53:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9771620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ozymanreis/pseuds/Ozymanreis
Summary: The roof was years ago at this point. Sometimes he forgets that, or rather,needsto forget it. Acceptance often fell back into denial, especially in weak moments such as these.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The Reichenbach Fall AU, begins on the rooftop.  
> Prompt 62: Magic

“Go on. For me. Pleeeease?”

At the inanity in that statement, that _whine_ , a crack appears in Sherlock’s temper. Practically lunging at Jim, the detective seizes him by the collar of his coat, swinging him around, over the edge of the building.

Still, the criminal, off-balance, fate entirely in Sherlock’s palms, sureness of grip, doesn’t flinch. Still looks _bored._ Anger increasing, he shakes him, once, twice, but all he gets is arms thrown out in surrender.

“You’re insane.”

Jim looks around, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “You’re just getting that now?”

_God. Dammit._ He still isn’t taking this seriously. Sherlock shakes him again, leaning his prisoner back another few degrees over the edge, over the nothingness before the hard landing.

But there’s something Sherlock learns here, in this moment.

The weight in his hands… _Something_ isn’t quite right.

Something…

 

* * *

 

The gun goes in the river. It has to. It has to be out of her hands. Wait, _her_ hands? Oh. Right. Faith. Sherlock is high — a lot of heroin, right? He can’t quite remember it all. There’s a list somewhere, but that’s beside the point. He blinks, looking into the distance, memories rushing back into his head, as if watching a movie in 30x speed: Jim shoots himself, his mission to break Moriarty’s web. Returning after two years. John. Mary ( _oh god, Mary_ ). The wedding. Magnussen. _Killing_ Magnussen. The illusion, fleeting _hope_ that Jim had returned.

The baby. Mary’s death at the hands of his own arrogance. John isn’t speaking to him over it. There’s a suicidal client behind him, that he just made hand over her method of death in payment. Jim is still dead.

The roof was years ago at this point. Sometimes he forgets that, or rather, _needs_ to forget it. Acceptance often fell back into denial, especially in weak moments such as these. He’d had years to dwell on what could’ve been, the feelings he hadn’t been able to admit while he was still alive.

Sherlock never stopped Jim’s hands, but he has a chance now. Save this one person.

It wouldn’t save Jim, if the man could’ve been saved at all. Sherlock has so much more to make up for; this one is only the beginning. _I love you,_ he’d have said the words, if only he knew, _don’t leave me._

“‘Taking your own life.’ Interesting expression. Taking it from _who?_ Oh, once it’s over, it’s not _you_ who’ll miss it.” Would he have stopped her before? He’s not talking about her, that’s the problem. It’s all objectively true, but he’s screaming it in _Jim’s_ face, somewhere far away, in a different world.

“Your own death is something that happens to everybody else.” He leans over the railing, feeling sick down to his stomach, as if it were about to drop out. “Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.” Guts, spilling out into the Thames, it happens in his mind, if not physically. The ground disappears, he’s floating, falling, clinging for dear life.

“You’re not what I expected. You’re-” Faith begins, but Sherlock flails, panicking, heart in overdrive.

“What? What am I?” What is he? Who is he? _Where_ is he? The scene seems to be slipping out of his view, grasping for it with his fingertips, wishing away like vapor.

“Nicer.” She tries, watching him unfold in front of her.

“Than who?” He isn’t nice at all. Cruel, ignorant, unable to see anything… That’s what he was when someone else needed him. Someone he cared about. Who is _she?_ Does he care about her, or is this guilt? This… this is still all too late.

“Anyone.” It’s a hushed, whispered admission. _Oh god, isn’t that sad? No one nicer than me in her life…_

He looks behind him to offer his condolences aloud, but she’s gone. “Faith? Faith?”

Everything else disappears. The cars vanish into thin air, buildings melting into the ground, water draining from the river. Sherlock curls over, hunching into his knees, blackness closing in on him.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock’s hugging her. Faith? No, Eurus. His sister. His sister that Mycroft had lied about, hidden away. His sister that had met Jim Moriarty, spoken to him in complete privacy. She’s put him through hell tonight, but no, she’s just as damaged as he is. No. Worse. So smart, so above it all, watching helplessly from the plane, but unable to land.

Faith had been a test in itself.

Mycroft wanted to crash the plane. Had been crashing it his entire life, yet new ones kept leaving Heathrow.

No. Sherlock knows better now. He’ll fix this, he loves her, he loved him too, but he’ll save her.

He has to.

 

* * *

 

“Let me give you a little extra incentive. Your friends will die if you don’t.” The voice. _That_ voice. He hasn’t heard it in so long…

Sherlock gasps, sputters back to reality. Sun. Ground hard under his feet. He’s standing, Jim’s coat in his hands.

Wait.

Is he still on drugs? He’s overdosing, isn’t he?

He must be, because Jim is dead, Reichenbach was _years_ ago and… And Jim is still staring at him, practically manic with laughter, threatening his friends. If this is a construct by his mind, or something beyond, perhaps his descent into hell, then he really _wants_ to die. _No more of this._

His confusion must show in his eyes, because Jim tilts his head, expression losing that more malicious edge, giving way to something altogether more dangerous: curiosity, “Did I lose you somewhere?”

Sherlock blinks. He has to make a decision. Because either this is real or it isn’t, and if it isn’t real, then playing along will let the dagger sink a little farther into his heart. But on the off chance it _is_ real (though he isn’t sure how), then he has to do _something._

Oh yes. The _something._ Sherlock has an inkling now of what it is. Shaking Jim again experimentally, he finally understands: _oh god._ There it is. The left side of Jim's coat is stiffer, _heavier._

_Gun._

_Oh._

Suddenly it’s clearer. But despite whatever just happened — the future? Premonition? Exceptionally good scenario mapping? — the detective still doesn't know what to do.

“Chips!” He exclaims, the first thing to pop into his mind. It'd worked last time, his brain must've had reasons for presenting it as an option.

It’s Jim’s turn to be perplexed, even flustered, “Excuse me?”

“Chips, let's go get some.” Sherlock repeats with confidence, committed now. Confusion is better than suicidal, and that seems to be replacing it nicely. He backs up, letting Jim out of his grasp, setting him back on balance, on his own feet, but not too far away.

“I’m not sure what you're-” Jim’s hands fall limply to his side, face crumpling in confusion, and more than a little concern for Sherlock’s mental well-being, features all shouting, _darling, are you having a stroke?_

“You're suicidal, you're allowed chips, trust me.” Sherlock takes Jim’s hands, gaze burning through the other’s, “It’s about the only perk.”

At the word “suicidal,” Jim’s face falls, not even able to acknowledge the touch. _Yes,_ Sherlock thinks, the confirmation all he needs to know he’s in the right. The moment hangs, charged silence between them.

“You can’t win this.” Jim finally mutters, as if he thinks this is still the game. Sherlock is through playing.

_Sweet Jim, never very interested in being alive, especially if he could make more trouble being dead…_

_… Never very interested in being alive…_

Sherlock listens to the echoes of Eurus’ voice through his hollow skull. Is Jim still savable? Was he ever? But he hasn’t tried hard enough, hardly has at all, except to toss over the chess board. The board still exists, the pieces askew, but waiting. Waiting, waiting, and Sherlock can either set it all ablaze or _find another way…_

“I love you,” he says. It’s nearly a plea. “Don’t go.” He promised himself in his hallucination that he would, right? No more time for cowardice. This is it. His last chance. The final problem.

Jim’s head snaps up at the words, eyes wide, as if he can’t possibly _believe,_ “You… what?” No, he believes the words, he just can’t comprehend they’ve been said at all.

“I love you.” Sherlock repeats, squeezing his hands, “And I’ve just found you. Please. Don’t go.”

A beat. “You’re so cruel…” Jim looks pained, jaw clenching, “I… I’ve been waiting so long to hear you say it, but _now?_ It’s too…” He struggles with the word _late,_ because in a world where Sherlock loves him back, how could it be?

“I know.” Sherlock lets go of one of his hands, movements deliberate, palm up, eyes yet another plea. “Give me the gun.”

Slowly, Jim reaches into the pocket, hidden in the lining of his coat. His fingers wrap around the grip, considering for the briefest second that he might still have enough time to _use_ it…

Nevertheless, once it’s in Sherlock’s strong grasp, the decision is quite literally out of his hands. He doesn’t know if he feels relief or terror. His only way out…

Jim begins to hyperventilate, chest heaving, eyes teary. His legs wobble under him, putting up the barest hint of a fight before collapsing into Sherlock’s arms, a sobbing mess. Sherlock supports him, hugs around his back, holding him tight.

_Taking your own life? Taking it from whom?_

_Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it._

They’ll work on this. Together.

_And one day, I’ll watch you throw the gun away on your own._


End file.
